Deserved
by The Curious Kills
Summary: Facing the very real and solemn charges of attempted murder and treason, Prince Hans returns to the Southern Isles to meet the consequences of his actions. The resulting character development is loosely based on the Kübler-Ross model of grieving. (As this is a work in progress and I have studies to attend to, please be patient. Remember to comment your opinions, delicious friends!)
1. The Journey Home

**...**

_"What is tolerance? It is the consequence of humanity. We are all formed of frailty and error; let us pardon reciprocally each other's folly - that is the first law of nature."_

_Voltaire_

**_..._**

The barren cell provided little shelter from the cold mists that leaped onto the deck at night. Provided with nothing more than the clothes on his back to keep warm, Hans folded his arms tightly and pushed himself as far into the darkest corner of the little prison as possible to avoid getting damp. A light rain began to fall, almost as though deliberately adding insult to injury.

The sailors had tired of him by now; there was only so much teasing and taunting the men could play at until they, like so many others, grew weary of their sport and left him alone, not even bothering to offer the traitorous lowlife food or drink. As a matter of fact, Hans hadn't been given more than a bird's feast of stale tack and dull water throughout the journey of two days and a fortnight, and the pains of hunger were beginning to make themselves known for the first time since he was very small.

The wind changed course, turning the rain toward the stern of the ship and showering Hans with its icy, needle-like drops. His ginger-colored hair, already having lost much of its healthy shine for lack of food and sleep, fell plainly now, plastered to his face and forehead by the damp mist breathing into his prison. For a summer rainstorm, Hans thought, the weather was strangely cold. Perhaps it was the result of a stray storm blowing in from the north, or, perhaps, remnants of the near-calamitous misadventure in Arendelle. Steeling his feet against the wooden floor, Hans closed his green eyes, buried his face against his knees, and shuddered, once again cursing the cold as the sailors, sparing him not a single thought, rushed about their duties and adjusted the sails to match their course.

The ship would be docking at Gylden, the greatest of the five isles, come sunrise; Hans knew this from an overheard conversation between the captain and the navigator, both good and experienced navy men who knew their trade and served their country well. Soon the real nightmare would begin.

The criminal prince shivered as the wind began to pick up, cutting through his thin summer jacket and straight to the bone. He could taste salt in his mouth and considered approaching the bars of his prison, just so he could catch the raindrops in his mouth. How far he had fallen in such a short time, from being the future king of Arendelle to once again being the runtish, unwanted son whom his mother had never loved and his father had no purpose for. Now they both were dead, and their mercy and tolerance had not passed down to their oldest son, Bengt, who had now taken his father's place as king of the Southern Isles.

Hans dreaded the arrival at Gylden, although he was scarcely brave enough to admit it to himself. Bengt's cold and distant attitude was not the worst of the things he would have to face at the hands of his twelve brothers, most of whom would like nothing better than yet another opportunity to torment and jeer at their youngest sibling, either by abandoning him to the shadows and sickness of the castle dungeon or humiliating him for trying to overstep the boundaries fate had set in place for him by birth, before having him executed for both treason and murder in the public square like a common scoundrel. Hans had seen his brothers' idea of criminal punishment before, and mere recollection of some of the things he'd seen done to people for lesser felonies made his stomach turn.

As the ship rocked on the ocean's surface, the ill-fated young man curled up in the early morning shadows and fell asleep, numbed by a deeper cold than a mere frigid night's rain.


	2. Once At Gylden

**_..._**

_Before this chapter begins, I would like to thank my readers and reviewers for giving this story and its author your support. I hope not to disappoint any of you come further updates. I have several scraps and ideas already written in place for future chapters, and I promise to only give you the best of what I can offer. I look forward to your continued support and opinions._

_Sincerely, The Curious Kills_

**…**

Hans woke up to the sound of uniform footsteps striking the deck, approaching his cell. Opening his eyes and looking out, he recognized the gray and black uniforms of the royal guard approaching, their polished sabers and silver-threaded insignia gleaming in the morning sunshine. One of them, the rank insignia of a major embroidered on the black epaulettes of his jacket, Hans easily recognized as Prince Siegfried, the seventh-oldest of his twelve brothers.

As Siegfried received the prison key from the Gaule ambassador, Hans watched, trying to read his brother's expression. Siegfried was one of those unfortunate people who, no matter how serious or honest they tried to look, would always appear to be smiling; even the small, closely-trimmed beard did not completely hide the naturally upturned corners that often made people feel like they were being mocked.

Siegfried received the key with a courteous bow to the ambassador, his thick, dark-colored locks swaying as he then turned to release his brother and escort him to the castle. Hans' eyes fell on the set of chains held by one of the guards and felt a wash of humiliation. It was one thing to be locked away and ignored; to be paraded through the capital city in chains and disheveled, sea-stained clothing within view of his father's subjects was nothing short of mortifying.

"Good morning, Hans," Siegfried said as he opened the steel, cage-like door, stepping aside so Hans could egress. "Out you get."

The convicted prince rose to his feet and walked out of the cell only to have both arms seized by the vise-like yet careful grip of well-trained soldiers as another fastened metal cuffs around each wrist. The binding chain caused the cuffs to press heavily against the prince's pale skin, a pertinent reminder that there was no escape from the consequences of what he had done. Hans took one last look over the side of the ship, taking in for perhaps the last time the smell of the sea, the sun and fresh air.

Turning again to address the ambassador before leading his men and their charge to the castle, Siegfried bowed once more. "Thank you for looking after him, m'lord. King Bengt extends his salutations toward you and your people and bids you a safe return home."

"Thank you, Major Vidorsson," the ambassador replied, "I offer my king's deepest condolences to the remaining royal family in light of this one's disgrace."

Siegfried smiled wryly without a word at the last comment before turning away, calling out the order to disembark. Hans was pushed along with the formation, made to walk in the center so he couldn't attempt to run away once his feet touched land... As though he would be so foolish, he thought; where could he run to that his brothers wouldn't easily find and recapture him? Each of the isles was governed by Hans' five oldest brothers, and even Sigmund, the third-oldest and most gentle-mannered of the thirteen, would not allow Hans to take refuge on the Isle of Bleget where he served as governor, for Sigmund was a peacekeeper and a mediator by nature, not a favoritist but an observer who would never take sides, not even to save the life of his own brother.

The weather was much warmer during the day, and the roads were busy with morning laborers and merchants shouting the merits and qualities of their merchandise to all passersby. Curious onlookers and children stared as Hans was escorted through their midst and toward the castle gates, which were opened upon their arrival.

The nostalgic effect of entering the inner courtyard of Sten Herlighed, as the royal palace was named, held little to no weight for Hans, as he had never felt like he was supposed to be there in the first place. As a young child, he had spent more time being invisible and trying to stay out of trouble with his nursemaid and the castle staff than playing about and making happy memories with the rest of the normal children. What memories he did have were lackluster; for him, Sten Herlighed was just another place he had never belonged.

After being led by the escort to the military yard, Hans was ushered through the large, heavy wooden door that led underground to the the deeper levels of the castle, including the dungeon. As his feet touched the cold, rocky steps, the felon hesitated and was subsequently prodded forward by the soldier behind him. Resigning himself to his plight for now, Hans continued to follow the stairwell down to the damp, sodden, foul-scented basement level, where stood a collection of large, plain cells adorned with little more than a pile of straw for bedding and a grating in the floor to wash away the blood and human waste. A closed, adjacent chamber lay beyond, within sight of every cell's gate; Hans had only entered it once before, and the knowledge of things that were done to prisoners in the confines of that room had branded his dreams for several weeks afterward.

The nearest cell door was swung open and Hans was pushed inside. Closing the door, Siegfried turned to his men and gave them the order to have a drink and some breakfast in the courtyard above. The soldiers happily obliged, trusting their commander could handle his own little brother without need of assistance.

Once the room had cleared, Siegfried reopened the cell door and stepped inside, using the keys from his belt to unfasten the steel cuffs around his brother's wrists. Hans, surprised by this quiet show of compassion from the man whose main sport as a child had been teasing and bullying his younger brother, stepped away from the major and flexed his wrists, which had been made sore by the weight of the swinging chain during the walk to the castle.

About to open his mouth to thank his brother for the unexpected gesture, Hans was met with a harsh cuff across his face and fell backward, slipping on the straw that was scattered across the stone floor and hitting the ground hard. Before he could get back to his feet, Siegfried seized his left arm and swiftly cuffed it to a chain embedded in the wall, limiting Hans' freedom once again.

"You oaf," Siegfried mocked with a spiteful laugh; Hans scowled and pressed a hand against his injured jaw. "You stupid oaf!"

Hans continued to glare at him, giving the chain a harsh yank to test his reach as the ringing in his ears subsided. "Don't bother insulting me, Siegfried; I've been lowered enough already."

"And rightly so, you twit!" Siegfried taunted, "What, did you really think you could shoehorn yourself into a kingship? You were born thirteenth in line for a reason; you aren't cut out to rule a sandspit! And now everyone in the world is hearing about Prince Hans of the Southern Isles, the thirteenth in line to King Vidor's throne, a foul, plotting little guttersnipe – "

Having heard and endured enough insult throughout the past few days, Hans leaped to his feet and swung his fist in the direction of Siegfried's insufferable face, the hatred, anger and frustration for everything unjust in his life burning inside him like a hot coal that wouldn't die. The chain cut him off and stopped him mid-swing, causing his fist to fall just out of reach. Siegfried looked surprised at first and then laughed at Hans' failure, only serving to add fuel to the fire that had smouldered for years.

"Want to try that again, Hansel?" Siegfried teased, adding on a diminutive pet name to make things worse. Stepping deliberately within reach, the older brother openly gave Hans another shot, only to block it and respond with another blow aimed at his brother's head. Hans, expecting this trick, dodged the attack but found himself falling once again, tripped by his brother and pinned to the rocky floor of the cell, his free arm twisted painfully behind his back.

"You never beat me, Hans," Siegfried reminded him, giving the leveraging arm another twist for good measure, eliciting a stifled gasp of pain from the tackled red-head. "You never win."

After giving the arm another wrench for satisfaction's sake, Siegfried grabbed the second hanging chain and closed the steel cuff around Hans' other wrist, the lock sliding into place with an amorally cheerful _click_.

The victor prince stood up, releasing his brother and stepping away to look upon the prisoner's plight and grin once more that ever-detestable grin of his. Hans sat up with his back to the wall, flexing his aching right shoulder with a steady frown as Siegfried opened the cell door, stepped out and locked it behind him.

"Bengt is granting you an audience tomorrow morning," he announced, "Try not to entertain any delusions of grandeur before then."

Hans didn't entertain his brother with a response, and soon the man left, leaving the dungeon mercifully empty save for the rats and the flies.


	3. Retrospection and Bitter Things

…

"_With the benefit of historical hindsight we can all see things which we would wish had been done differently or not at all."  
Queen Elizabeth II_

_**...**_

_You never win._

The words cut deeply, just as Siegfried had intended. Hans could not recount how many time he had lived and relived those past few days in Arendelle, trying to see where he had gone wrong, knowing in his mind and heart that it could have worked; he could have won, just this once, and been king of a nation that knew only him, without the overcasting shadow of his twelve brothers who had done so much greater things.

It was hard to describe how much Hans resented his place in the royal family. His brothers, they who had been given so much more opportunity, taught by the greatest swordsmen and scholars so they could govern the five isles and serve their people and be recognized for their greatness, were nothing short of an eyesore for him. Everything he had ever learned and achieved had been done second hand. There was nothing he could do to make himself his own person, to stand out and be recognized by his father's subjects as a worthy individual. Hell, hardly any of them had bothered to remember his existence before now, now that he was a criminal, a traitor and a failure in the eyes of all.

A lesser man would have blamed Queen Elsa for his loss and cursed her magical powers that had remained hidden for so long. After all, how was he supposed to anticipate something like that? Hans, however, was an intelligent person who knew what he was capable of; Queen Elsa's magic had been a mixed blessing for him, throwing her into the role of being feared and hated for her strange and sorcerous abilities. Even in a world of magic, magic wielders were still considered dangerous and unpredictable, and fear was a viable wellspring from which the most clever of clever of people could often draw success.

Hans could have done that.

He did do that.

He had proven to the people of Arendelle, in his short time as their caretaker, that he was a man they could trust and rely upon in the darkest of times. They had believed in him, looked to him for answers and seen a wise and compassionate ruler.

Then... he failed. The truth was dragged out from the shadows and into the sunlight, and he had been found guilty. Now he was a monster in Arendelle's eyes, the worse kind of Human being, and all the good that he had done them was forgotten in the wake of the lie.

Where had he gone wrong? There must have been something he could have done, some opportunity that he had overlooked and thereby damned himself. He had to be at fault and no one else.

His mind relived the story once again, dwelling specifically upon the first and last day that he would ever be called upon to act as a leader.

Anna was brought to the gates, delivered by a peasant whose name Hans would never know. She was cold, nearly frozen through and through, her hair almost as white as her sisters as she clung to him for support and Human warmth. He supported her, guiding her to a couch by the fire, her eyes looking to him the way a child looks at a god.

Then she asked for the impossible, an act of true love from him, a person who had never been allowed to experience love, other than to watch it be given away from servants and staff to their children, dirty, plainly-clad little serfs who had nevertheless been happy for the attention they received from a loving parent. How was he supposed to know what it even felt like?

Hans remembered the pain he had felt and then quickly buried as she prattled on, shivering and weak but still such an idealist. He knew what she wanted to hear, and he knew what action was expected of him. Still playing the part of the loving fiance, he had leaned forward, coming close enough to brush his lips against hers...

But he couldn't do it. The pain had turned to indignation, his own thoughts and emotions building and spinning out of control. Finally, unable to control himself, he allowed his ego free, and it had run rampant, cutting and clawing through everything that made Anna who she was.

The strangest bit...

_Oh, Anna... If only there was someone out there who loved you._

The strangest bit was that it felt good.

He had failed because he had allowed his hubris to take over and control him, rather than using his brain to think and continue forward with the plan. There were so many ways he could have still succeeded. He could have drugged her, or pretended that it was her fault that the kiss hadn't worked. The main point was that he could have done something, and instead he had acted like a child, allowing his heart to overtake his mind and release the words that he had previously spared in the presence of other people.

Anna's eyes... Those frightened, desperate blue eyes, begging him to tell her that this was a dream, a nightmare, something other than the truth, had only spurred him on, encouraging him to cut deeper and deeper until he had effectively carved the heart of her chest with his words alone, letting her feel the pain he had kept inside for so long.

At least people had knew she existed and cared for her well-being. No one would notice his absence in the Southern Isles. If he died, there would be no grand funeral, no day of mourning. There would hardly even be a response at all, while for Anna, thousands would mourn her passing and wish her spirit safe travel to wherever dead spirits go, and the understanding of that had made Hans bitter and cold in a moment, producing the snake that he had become. He would rule and she would not.

He could have done it.

He could have succeeded, had he only not lost control of his feelings and played the part. He had been so close to becoming king and being praised by all of Arendelle as a tragic hero who had lost everything for the sake of his subjects. He could have continued the ruse until Elsa's death on the fjord, and become the shining and powerful monarch that he had dreamed of being since he was a child. He wouldn't have had to lie anymore or hurt anyone. He could have done well, proven himself a worthy man who deserved the respect of his brothers, his people and the people of Arendelle.

_Prince Hans, Arendelle looks to you._

He had been so close...

The door opened and two guards entered, carrying a bowl of some sort of food and a bucket of water. Was it evening already? Time seemed to have passed rather quickly... Then again, it wasn't as if Hans could see the sky growing darker. There were no windows in this prison, only metal bars and a door that Hans prayed would never be opened.

The guards approached, unlocking the cell gate and opening it so one could enter and place down the poor excuse that was substituted for dinner while the other could keep an eye on the criminal, whom everyone knew was capable of trickery by now at a moment's notice. Hans stood up, feeling that to remain seated would be the same as lowering himself to these people.

The free-handed guard approached, shoving Hans backward against the wall and drawing a dirk from his belt so the prince would know not to fight back. The tip of the blade held level to his chest kept Hans from striking down the guard, which earned him another attack, this time manifested by a fist in his gut before being pulled away from the wall and thrown onto the floor. The chains clanked in protest as Hans fell, the cuffs chafing and pulling at his wrists. The one carrying the food kicked him while he was down, knocking the breath out of the prisoner's lungs, leaving him gasping on the dungeon floor.

"What's the matter, Prince Hans?" one of the guards taunted; Hans couldn't tell which one it was. "Come on! Get up and eat!"

Before he could retaliate with a smart reply, Hans was silenced with another swift kick from the guard's pointed boot. His lungs crying from the repeated abuse, Hans coughed, trying to catch his breath as he looked up only to get a facefull of whatever bland, odd-smelling mash he was expected to eat.

"Oops!" said the guard pouring the substance as the other one couldn't contain himself anymore and chuckled at the sight of it, "Pardon me, your majesty!"

The guards both began laughing, and the one weilding the dagger placed his foot against the side of Hans' face, forcing his mouth to the ground where a puddle of the stuff lay congealing. "Go on," he teased, "Lick it up nice and clean."

Hans struggled angrily, disgusted by the smell of the floor and whatever was all over his face. The guards, completely amused, satisfied themselves with one last kick before dropping the bucket of water, letting it pour out onto the ground until there was little more than a mouthful left in the container as they walked away, locking the gate behind them and leaving Hans to rue his situation alone.

As they left, talking about their daily lives and whatever else was interesting that day, Hans picked himself up and got to his knees, wiping his face on his sleeve and coughing from the abuse to his ribcage. This was beyond humiliation. He righted the bucket with shaking hands and drank what was left, still breathing heavily and trembling with a rage that served no purpose.

**…**

_Author's Note: I hate the fact that every time I begin to write the word "Arendelle", the word "Rivendell" comes unbidden to mind. Curse you, Disney, and your generic magical kingdoms!_

_Fun Fact: There is, in fact, a Rivendell Bicycle Company, and I do so want one of their bikes. Elves have all the fun._


	4. The Devil's Advocacy

…

"_Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do."_

_Voltaire_

…

There was little sleep to be had that night. The sounds of the rats and mice continued to frollick through the brick walls and cold floor, echoing until the padded footfalls, scratching claws and high-pitched rodent squeals had built to produce a cacophony of symphonic racket, making it impossible to fall truly asleep. To add to Hans' discomfort came the midnight chill conducted through the stone walls, ceiling and basement by the solid earth surrounding them. The air turned cold by association and made the dungeon a veritable icebox.

The straw pile in the far corner offered little comfort, but at least it was dry and provided him with some place else to lie than the bare, filth-stained floor. His chest aching from the beating he'd endured from the guards, Hans curled up against the wall, using his jacket as a blanket in the hopes of conserving heat. Eventually, the orchestral discord of his furry inmates strangely lulled him into a sleep-like trance, but to wish for a few hours of true rest would have been expecting too much; by the time it was morning, Hans felt no more rested than he had been the night before.

After the guards came and left, tossing in a few churlish remarks with the morning gruel ("Wouldn't you like a feather bed, your majesty?"), Hans drifted back to sleep without even touching the food, only to be later reawoken by the arrival of Siegfried and two other guards.

"Wake up," the man ordered, unlocking and swinging the door open, "It's time."

"Time?" Hans echoed blankly.

"Bengt wants to have a word with you," Siegfried replied, "Get up and I'll take you to him."

Getting to his feet, Hans suddenly caught his breath as a sharp pain gashed through his side and then vanished. Siegfried looked at him strangely, as though trying to tell if Hans was being melodramatic, trying to pull off a clever ruse or something else before unlocking the fetters that kept the convict bound to the wall.

Hans looked down at his wrists to see that his skin had turned dark in some places, bruised and scraped by the chains as he had been tossed about last evening. He could only imagine what the rest of him looked like. Pulling forward his jacket to hide the dark purple markings, he stepped out of the cell and was handcuffed before Siegfried and the guards led him outside the dungeon and into the grander portion of Sten Herlighed via the servants' entrance.

...

Bengt was already waiting in the king's private library, patiently seated on a red velvet couch while leafing through a heavy, gold-rimmed book, a serene, collected expression upon his unblemished face. Upon his brother's arrival, Bengt closed the book and set it aside, revealing that it was the fifth volume of the compendium concerning the kingdom's legal system, complete with multiple levels of interpretation and advice which had been written and passed down from generation to generation of his father's line.

Standing to greet the person he'd waited to see, Bengt glanced dubiously at his brother's unkempt garments and filthy state before recognizing him without so much as a trace of emotion.

"Hans."

Not knowing how else he was expected to reply and feeling ten times dirtier now that he was able to compare himself to the glittering, stately garments of his brother the king, Hans echoed back numbly. "Bengt."

"I believe," Bengt said after a moment's thought, "You ought to refer to me as your king."

Stung by this blatant display of superiority, Hans took a breath to calm himself, resisting the urge to insult one who had the power to order him dead in an instant. "Your majesty."

There was another stretch of silence. The sound of the ticking clock echoed for several seconds before Bengt commented apathetically, "You're filthy."

"Your guards have little taste in manners."

"After everything you have done, you expect any different?" Bengt replied, his obdurate and logical demeanor revealing itself without much sentiment.

Hans did not reply immediately; his brother knew the answer.

"Let us speak of the main issue," Bengt suggested, taking a few steps toward the bookshelf so he wouldn't have to smell the mildewed pungency of his brother's attire. "By Queen Elsa of Arendelle, you were found guilty of..."

Bengt lifted a letter from the mahogany writing desk which bore the seal of Arendelle's royal lineage. Hans recognized it as the same piece of paper the Gaulish ambassador had passed onto Siegfried before they left the ship.

"'Attempted murder on two accounts and malice aforethought," Bengt read from it, "Abandonment of a royally appointed office granted to you by the Princess Anna; plotting against the crown of Arendelle and, in effect, espionage of the foulest degree'," Bengt concluded, placing the letter back on the desk.

"I beg to differ," he stated, "Not only did you attempt to murder the two remaining members of a foreign royal house," Bengt stated, "You did so as the sole representative of your country, thus committing an act of war that could have brought irreparable harm upon both nations had Queen Elsa chosen to interpret it as such."

"What are you saying?" Hans queried.

"You have read the compendium," Bengt continued, "I would expect that we all have, at some point or another, although I have little hope for the brutish among us." The wry grievance in his tone as he recognized that not all of his brothers were as mentally endowed as he and his youngest sibling were was the closest thing to real sentiment Hans had ever heard him express.

"Tell me, Hans," the older one catechized, "What did our ancestors have to say on the subject of treason?"

Hans stared at his brother in shock. Was he really... Was Bengt really so callous as charge his own brother with an act of treason against the Southern Isles? Hans knew well that his brother cared little for familial ties and had often completely avoided interaction with the rest of his family, but this degree and measure of pure unemotion was more than anyone could have expected.

"'It is made equal to genocide via the perpetrator's complete and cavalier disregard for those hundreds or thousands he represents and is thereby a crime of the foulest nature against his fellow man'," Bengt quoted directly from the book he had just set down. He looked directly into Hans' eyes and, by association, into the young man's soul, piercing it so there could be no doubt as to the solemnity of the situation. Bengt had a harsh personality, and although he shared the same brilliant hair and eyes as his youngest brother, the two of them had little else in common.

"Now tell me," Bengt continued the catechism, "What do our ancestors advise should be done to this perpetrator?"

Hans opened his mouth to speak, but the words would not leave his throat. Did his brother expect him to openly damn himself? Noticing his young brother's perplexion, Bengt took a step closer, maintaining eye contact as he quoted again.

"'It is the utmost travesty', they say, 'and, as such, can only be punished by the severest of consequences – the taking of life.'"

"You would have me dead," Hans concluded, his tone empty and void of focus. He had known his brother was cold, but this... Seeing it happen, being told so by the king himself, his own brother... The feeling was worse than Hans had imagined it would be, and all he could do in response was let it happen.

Bengt smiled slightly, as though finding the implication ambiguously amusing. "As I recall, Hans, weren't you also found guilty of an attempted double murder?" he reminded him, "It is not I who make the rules and build the system. It is merely my duty as King of the Southern Isles to see it done and protected to the best of my ability."

"But..." Hans stammered, still struggling to find his own words, "The tribunal... You can't sentence me just like that. Sigmund, Josef, Lauritz, Sebestian, they all have to be here..."

"The tribunal will not grant you any favors," Bengt admonished him, "Our predecessors made themselves clear on the subjects of murder and treason, and to show deference to you out of some delusion of familial loyalty would be unfair to the people; wouldn't you agree?"

Hans, resigning himself to what Bengt had decided, supplied a short nod to display his acceptance of the monarch's opinion and quietly responded, "I do."

After all, his brother did have a point. One could not afford to show favor or mercy when passing royal judgment, regardless of the king's relationship to the accused. There would be a tribunal, yes, and there would be an official hearing granted, but the sentence would most likely remain the same and it was almost a kind of service from Bengt's point of view to inform his brother without pretense. As he had aptly pointed out before, the ancestors had made themselves clear.

"Good," Bengt replied, "Then we understand each other. Have you eaten?"

"No," Hans answered.

"Then return to your cell and eat. I will order the servants to bring something left over from breakfast," Bengt told him, preparing to summon the guards and leave. As he opened the door, Hans caught his attention with a simple response.

"Thank you."

Pausing, Bengt looked back at his younger brother and sighed, as though almost reconsidering his decision. Hans looked away, opting to study the intricate woven threads of the library's carpet rather than face his brother the king, almost afraid to see a shadow of mercy in the older one's eyes. He knew as well as well as Bengt that, in the end, there would be no repeal once the die was cast.

"I have no need for a dead man's gratitude," Bengt uttered coldly before leaving the room and ordering the guards to return the prisoner to the dungeon.

The food brought by the servants tasted duller than it should have, and Hans couldn't bring himself to eat much. After all, he was little more than dead already; what was the point in nourishment if he was going to die in a few weeks' time?

He didn't even know when the tribunal was going to be, but he knew the process well, and he was well aware that it gave no window for compassion or justification. Like the compendium, it was a cold, amoral thing that merely added structure and reason to an ancient and barbaric practice dating back the oldest beginnings of civilization in the Isles. In the end, the king's word was law and there was no room for mercy toward the accused.

His only hope was that the king's verdict would be overruled by a unanimous outcry from the four presiding governors, and such an event was unlikely. Lauritz, who governed the Isle of Kildebrønd, was a weak-minded man who would often defer to whatever the highest authority had to say on the subject, that authority being bestowed, more often than not, to Bengt. Sebastian, the governor of Skønhed Isle, had a family to look after and could not afford to risk his powerful position and the happiness of his wife and three children for the sake of a brother he had scarcely spoken to in years. Josef would care little; after the loss of his wife and child to the sickness that devastated Reden Isle three years ago, his mind would only be focused on reaching some sort of conclusion so he wouldn't have to endure the presence of people for any longer than he had to.

Even Sigmund, the only person capable of changing their oldest brother's mind once it was made up, would likely get no further than changing the sentence to life imprisonment, and Hans wasn't exactly sure if that would be better for him or worse.

If only he had done something different in Arendelle... If only he hadn't given in and let go, allowing his broken hatred and scalding tongue the freedom they had been denied for the past few years. Had he only remained in control of himself, he would have been ruling a nation, commanding a people who addressed him with respect and loyalty, calling him a hero and king, asking for his blessing and support rather than forgetting he was ever there.

But the damage had been done and now he was just Hans, the irrelevant youngest son of a proliferant king, and soon he would be even less.

A coughing fit seized him as he drank from the refilled bucket of water and choked on a drowning insect. Soon he could no longer do even that, the pain in his chest making it almost impossible to breath. Feeling suffocated by his own body, Hans pressed an gently against his injured side and wondered if the guards hadn't done more than merely bruise him the other day. Wiping his mouth on his now thoroughly soiled jacket sleeve, Hans grew weary and, as the pain subsided to a dull ache, he laid down upon the pile of straw and stared at the opposite wall, feeling strangely vacant and hollow as the hours crept by.


	5. Reminiscence

**.**

AUTHOR'S NOTE

I truly apologize for taking so long to update. I have been having a rather rough semester, and I am barely staying afloat with all the assignments, responsibilities and due dates I'm being swamped with. I have also been busy designing a steampunk Hans cosplay for next year's con circuit, a design I will most likely be having to make entirely by hand. I'm also getting ready to move out-of-state, which is a hell of a task for one who has never changed residence in one's entire life.

I hope that I can make up for my tardiness with some good writing and plot development. There will also be some edits and titular changes, so please feel free to backtrack if something confuses you or seems different. It probably is.

I also apologize for any bumpiness in this chapter; I'm afraid it isn't my best writing, LOL.

And so, without any further adieu...

**. . .**

As the magnificent battleship "Sea Witch" docked at the Glyden Main Port, their captain oversaw his crew with a sharp and clever eye, his weather-browned features bearing only a slight resemblance to that of his royal lineage. Being seventh in line to the throne, Prince Severin had long come to terms with his less-than-remarkable destiny and had therefore aimed not for a position of office in the kingdom herself but a place where he could command and serve the people his father had governed for so many years. With that idea in mind, the navy suited him well, and the Sea Witch's sturdy make and high speeds were well tailored to match his unique prowess and strategy when it came to battles on the ocean front. He ruled the hearts and wills of his crewmen with equal shares of justice and harsh reality; floggings and other forms of sea-faring discipline were dealt out just as commonly as an extra few days of shore leave and pleasant evenings on deck, good food and a bit of fun.

Today, however, Captain Severin Vidorsson was all business. It was not a military mission he was carrying out but a simple ferry assignment: to deliver his brothers, the Earls Sigmund and Lauritz, to the central port of Glyden, where they would be met by a private carriage which would take them to Sten Herlighed, the castle where each of them had grown up, more or less.

Severin felt no particular longing to join them. The reason for their visit notwithstanding, the old, stone-walled palace had never really felt like home to him, and the sea was far more liberal and forgiving. While he had not been nearly as neglected as the younger boys – Walter, Siegfried and Hans, for example – he also remembered having to watch as his older brothers received all the attention and glory. It was always the older five who were granted elaborate parties on their birthdays, private tutoring to see that they excelled in every way, and, of course, plenty of marriage offers from the parents of young noble ladies.

Severin had often felt invisible, like extra baggage that wasn't really needed but tolerated anyway for sentimental value. The only time his father and mother would notice him was if he did something terrible, and while Severin had chosen to stay invisible rather than do something bad enough to get their father the king involved, kids like Walter and Siegfried had never had a problem with causing mischief, feigning illnesses or accusing the servants of some horrible misdoing just to get the attention of Mummy and Daddy. Severin had tried to train his second-younger brother, Simon, out of following suite, but sooner or later the trap was set and Simon fell into the same routine as the rest.

Out of all of his younger brothers, only Hans and Viggo seemed to have grasped the concept of being happy with their invisibility. The only brother less notable than them was Neils, and Neils, well... He was a bit special and as such had always been hidden away, lest the public realize that madness ran in the genes of their monarchy. He wouldn't have survived very long had it not been for Sigmund's care and attendance.

Nevertheless, it appeared that Hans had been concealing something a little darker than basic resentment over the years. Like everyone in the Southern Isles, Severin had also heard news of what his brother had done in Arendelle and was honestly baffled by it. Surely, he hadn't been very close to his youngest brother, but of all his siblings, little Hans had seemed the least likely to do something as extreme as attempted assassination and espionage. Hell; back when they were kids, Severin would often forget that Hans was even in the room and sometimes nearly ran him over before he recognized what was in his path. Of course, it didn't help that Severin was rather tall, and Hans had been a very small and delicate child before his teenage years.

As clear in his mind as the memories were, Prince Severin was not at all interested in revisiting the place where they'd happened and was more than eager to leave port as soon as he could. The farther he was away from all this mess, the better. Should the tribunal sentence Hans to an untimely end – after all, the laws of the Southern Isles were still somewhat harsh when it came to criminal justice, and Bengt was not a very understanding nor forgiving person, if he remembered correctly – Severin wanted to remember his youngest brother as the bright-eyed, eight-year-old ginger who flew into his older brother's bedroom at two in the morning on his birthday to shout him awake so they could go fishing in the private King's Bay at Kildebrønd Isle. Happy things like that became his brother's memory better, and Severin wasn't one to openly dwell on inevitable loss or obvious tragedy.

As the ship glided into the dock, the Sea Witch's two prestigious passengers arrived on deck to observe the final proceedings. Prince Severin approached them, disguising his weary heart with a pleasant expression.

"Good morning, Sigmund, Lauritz!" he greeted them, "How did you sleep?"

"Sleep? What's that?" Lauritz asked sarcastically and yawned. He wasn't one for ocean travel and much preferred the stability and comfort of home. However, he was a hard one to read, and sometimes Severin wondered if he wasn't just saying things to get a rise out of people. He wasn't alone in that thought.

"I slept well; thank you, Severin," Sigmund replied, as though apologizing (in a way) for Lauritz's cavalier dismissal of the captain's pleasantries. "How soon can we disembark?"

Severin looked out over the deck to observe the ship's progress before replying, "Only a minute more." Turning toward his crew, he shouted the order to drop anchor and pull the ship the rest of the way in.

"A whole minute," Lauritz sighed, stretching his arms for a moment before walking away to lean over the side. Sigmund and Severin watched him go and then turned toward each other, each understanding what the other wanted to say.

"Thanks for transporting us, Severin," the older brother said, "I haven't been aboard the Sea Witch since her maiden voyage."

"She hasn't changed all that much," the younger replied, a self-conscious smile touching his lips like that of a proud newly-wed. He had grown quite attached to the Sea Witch over the years, and even though she would be eventually decommissioned like all navy vessels, he was quite sure he would not be able to see her demolished or forgotten.

An uncomfortable silence followed, broken by Sigmund with a gentle, considerate tone. "About Hans..."

"Just see that he's judged fairly," Severin asked, not even quite ready to talk about it with his own sibling, "I know what he's done, I know what he's accused of, but please don't forget: he was once our little brother and we are all that he has."

Sigmund nodded. "I know. I... don't enjoy this either, Sev. I wish he'd taken some other path, but with things as they are..."

"Just do what's right," Severin asked, his voice quiet and understanding. While Severin had been comfortable with hiding from sight and taking long excursions on the sea to stay away from his family's madness, Sigmund had remained in the thick of it, a stalwart elder brother who took on responsibilities that would have broken a lesser man, being the shoulder to cry on, the portrait to shout at, the nurturing and dutiful one who took on the role of caretaker and parent when both of his own couldn't be bothered to take a second notice. Severin, for all his presence and strong character while in command of the Sea Witch, knew well that he could never have been so patient or giving of himself.

If any noble of the five isles would show mercy at the tribunal and spare Hans' life, it would be Sigmund.

The final anchor was thrown and the ship was pulled into the dock. As the sailors lowered the passenger ramp, Sigmund and Lauritz both bid the captain goodbye. Soon after, they disembarked and Severin watched them leave, wishing one last time that things could be different before ordering the crewmen to restock the hold with food and supplies and to run a maintenance check on the entire ship, doing what he could to ignore the heaviness in his heart.

**...**

The ride to the castle was quiet; Sigmund had heard enough of his brother's double entendres and gallows humor directed at their brother's situation back on the ship and had made it clear that he didn't quite care for it. There was whistling in the dark and there was taking advantage of a terrible situation to make things even more difficult for the people involved; unfortunately, Lauritz was one to lean toward the latter. He liked to see things burn and enjoyed watching others' misfortune, it seemed; even in his own earlship, he was known to be somewhat of a puckish and insensitive prick. Sigmund wouldn't go so far as to call him a prick, but he couldn't say that he blamed those who secretly did.

After a long pause of healthy silence, Lauritz caught Sigmund's gaze and smiled pleasantly at him, much too pleasantly to set well with the day's agenda.

"I haven't visited Glyden in years, and yet I could swear the weather is still the same as the day I left" he remarked, "Things haven't changed much, have they?"

Sigmund looked out the window and had to agree with him. Despite all the years of his overseeing his own island province, the buildings and people seemed to have hardly aged or grown a bit. They still appeared to be going about with their daily lives, doing the same old jobs they had been trained to do since they were children and would be doing until the day they died; such was life. "Somehow, I doubt they ever will," he remarked.

"The more things change, the more they stay the same." Lauritz quoted the common cliché and grinned. "I wonder if the castle looks any different. After all, my last visit here was for the purpose of our dear brother's coronation. Who knows what Bengt's done to the place?"

"I'm sure he's kept it clean and polished," Sigmund assured him, "Bengt isn't an overly aesthetic type."

"That's a fact," Lauritz replied, and silence fell again for a few precious seconds before he asked, "Looking forward to the tribunal?"

It took Sigmund a moment to even register what Lauritz was saying, much less implying. Giving his brother a stern, disgusted look, the earl replied sharply.

"Not quite."

Noting his older brother's harsh expression, Lauritz laughed good-naturedly and passed it off as a joke. "Smile, Sigge. Bengt has invited us home for the first time since his coronation; I think a bit of levity is only natural."

Shaking his head, the older prince's eyes turned away again and tracked the passersby as they disappeared behind the edge of the carriage window. "There is a time and a place, Lauritz," he spoke softly, "Today is not the day to be cracking jokes."

"Come on, Sigge; why so dour?"

"Our youngest brother must plead for his life in a few days' time," Sigmund explained sharply, his patience wearing thin, "And we are to take his fate in our hands and determine whether he lives or dies. I think that is reason enough to be somewhat dour."

Taking a moment to calm himself – if there was anything Bleget's heir was reknowned for, it was that he was the king of composure – Sigmund focused on the growing image of their father's castle in the distance and avoided meeting Lauritz's eyes with his own. "Let me have silence, Lauritz," he requested, and finally his brother stopped talking.

…

Bengt was meditating on a personal chess match in the royal library when a butler entered, quietly and respectfully, to announce the arrival of his two brothers. Prying his eyes away from the pieces and rising from the desk, the king ordered they be taken to their quarters and invited to the evening's meal. The butler mentioned that Prince Sigmund had wished to have a word with him, in response to which Bengt replied, "I will speak with him in due time."

The butler bowed, uttering a reverent, "Yes, your majesty," and then hurried off to attend to the noble guests.

**. . . **

After changing out of his traveling clothes and into more casual attire, Prince Sigmund took a seat by the antique drawing desk where he had studied as a child and closed his brown eyes, breathing in the nostalgic scent of his old bedroom and calming himself, collecting his thoughts in preparation for the conference he had requested with his older brother. One did not simply walk in on the king; not even his own family had that right.

After a few minutes' meditation, a knock was heard at the door and Sigmund opened his eyes, rising to see who it was. "Yes?"

"His majesty requests your presence in his personal study," a voice responded; it was one of the higher-ranking servants, although Sigmund could not recall his name.

Opening the door, Prince Sigmund smiled appreciatively and thanked the servant before moving swiftly down the hall. He knew where the servant was referring to; he had fond memories of the place from far back in his childhood, before most of his younger brothers had even been born. Bengt had been far more spirited back then and the two of them had often played together, climbing the bookshelves, racing tin horses along the border of the decorated Persian rug, and playing war, fencing with their mother's knitting needles and portraying long, agonizing death sequences until their father the king lost patience and sent them back to the nursery or forced them outside to play. Something changed in his older brother some time ago, Sigmund felt, burying the dastardly mischief-maker in the name of creating a worthy heir to their father's throne.

Knocking twice on the engraved, oaken door, Sigmund waited until he heard his brother's voice call, "Enter," and then stepped inside.

He hadn't seen Bengt in many years, but he could see the marks of maturity on the thirty-two-year-old's face. Trying to envision this proud and regal gentleman as the fire-starting hellion who broke his arm racing Sigmund to the top of the bookshelves when he was seven seemed futile and almost shameful; nevertheless, Sigmund looked upon the king as his brother, even as he executed an appropriate bow and addressed him as, "Your majesty."

"Your excellence," Bengt replied dryly and then, his countenance softening, gestured toward an empty chair. "Have a seat."

"Thank you," Sigmund answered and sat down. "I haven't seen you in a long time. How are you?"

"I am well," Bengt stated.

"And the queen?"

"Anneliese is also well," Bengt assured him, "She sends her regards."

"That's kind of her," Sigmund commented with a smile; Queen Anneliese, the daughter of a wealthy viscount, was a sweet and gentle person who had embraced her union with the royal family with pride and honor, happily forming friendships with each of the brothers as she met them, despite the obvious jealousy that many of them harbored toward her husband. She and Sigmund had gotten along spectacularly well and formed a respectable friendship, exchanging letters every now and then when their complicated schedules allowed.

Opting to cut to the chase, Bengt put a swift end to the pleasantries and changed the topic with professional seamlessness. "What did you want to speak to me about, Sigmund?"

Following his brother's lead, the Earl of Bleget responded with an equally solemn approach. "I want to visit Hans."

"Why?" the king asked.

"Because he's my brother, Bengt," Sigmund responded, "He's our brother, and I would like to hear his perspective of the events that transpired in Arendelle before we all damn him at the tribunal."

"Do you doubt the other accounts?" Bengt inquired, having little patience for what he considered to be sentimental nonsense, "There is very little question as to what happened."

"Be that as it may, I still want to hear my little brother's side of things," Sigmund replied, a frown deepening his solemn expression, "Or to simply hear his reasons; even a madman has the right to argue his case and present a motive."

"Sentiment," Bengt announced, calling out his brother on his greatest weakness, "For the sake of sentiment, you would give an assassin and conspirator the time of day."

Sigmund shrugged admissively. He wasn't going to say that his brother was incorrect; he wasn't. At the heart of it all, Sigmund was a far more compassionate man than his brother would ever wish to be, and while that may be a weakness, it was still a part of what made him the person he known to be.

"Very well," the king sighed, throwing his brother a bone for the sake of family, "If you must."

**. . .**

As he descended the stairs into the dimly-lit dungeon, Sigmund did his best to not gag on the smells; there was only so much a man's senses could take, and the strong odor of roaches, vermin, stale hay and water was not something that anyone would willingly accustom themselves to. Nevertheless, he kept as straight a face he could and, taking a lantern from the guard who had followed him down, the earl asked to be left alone to speak with the prisoner.

Before he could say anything, he was greeted by the voice of his youngest brother from behind the cell bars.

"Sigmund?" Hans asked, quickly getting to his feet and brushing the hay from his clothes as he entered the lamplight. His eyes did not light up as they recognized the second-oldest of his family, but there was a certain familial bond that was recognizable in the way his expression changed. "It is you."

He paused uncomfortably for a second before commenting, "It's been a while. Years."

It took the older man a few seconds to collect his words. He had expected Hans to look different, of course – there was no such thing as staying the same in this world – but he had not anticipated how similar to his oldest brother the young prince would appear, and how different from his fraternal twin. The shadows cast by the lantern across Hans' pale and narrow face in unison with the dirt and impurity of his cell made him look much older than his twenty-one years, and for a moment Sigmund had to remind himself that he'd left Bengt in the private library.

"I know," Sigmund answered, settling the lantern on a nearby hook, "How are you?"

A dark, unhappy laugh demolished the sense of reunion.

"How do you think?" Hans replied bitterly, his eyes focusing on the opposite wall, as though afraid to look at his brother directly..

"I don't know what you think anymore," Sigmund informed him, making clear his opinion of Hans' misdeeds. He could not stand by and show deference; what his brother had done was inexcusable and unexpected, and by the tone of his voice Hans could tell that Sigmund felt betrayed by what had happened.

Betrayed? Why should Sigmund feel betrayed? He had had no part in it; hell, he hadn't even spoken to his little brother in years, aside from the occasional courtesy letter. Nevertheless, if he was to survive this tribunal, Hans needed to get in somebody's good graces, and Sigmund was the kindest-hearted.

"I know I ..." he started to say, and then stopped; he was nothing if not prideful, even in his present state, and Sigmund could easily tell that he was trying to not admit he deserved whatever happened to him. _I know I was wrong..._

"I know... what I did..." Hans finally said, "But Sigmund, please; we're family. You can't let me just die; It's not fair. It's not – "

A confused frown deepened on Sigmund's face as he listened to his sibling's hesitant plea. "Hans, what are you talking about?"

"Bengt," the ginger explained, "He told me he would kill me. He told me he didn't care what the rest of you said at the tribunal, he didn't care about my defense; all he cares about is the code, and somewhere in his convoluted mind that equates to me being executed in the public square like a common felon –"

"Hans, calm down," Sigmund begged him; Hans was speaking so fast that his words were running against each other and crowding the space between them. "Bengt is not going to kill you. He doesn't have that right." _Besides... You are a felon... _Sigmund chose to keep those words to himself, however; he didn't want to frighten Hans even more, and he could already sense the fear building behind the young man's voice.

"Right? What right?" Hans demanded with a bitter laugh, "He's the king; he has every right in the book. He could cut me to pieces and feed my blood to his dogs and no one would lift a finger. Our ancestors have gotten away with much worse and everyone knows it."

"Hans –"

"How do you think he'll do it? Hanging? Beheading?" Pausing for breath, Hans coughed, made a face and went on. "Or maybe he'll get more creative. He could burn me alive or have me torn in two; maybe he'll have me drawn and quartered – that would be lovely and so very like him –"

"Hans," his brother pressed on, "I understand that you're frightened, but please have faith in your common sense. No one is going to kill you unless the verdict decrees it."

"Bengt said –"

"Bengt is one of five people," he reminded him.

"Four of which happen to be earls, not kings," Hans pointed out, "Who in their right mind would disagree with a guy who could sentence them to death just like that?" For a moment his breath seemed to catch in his lungs, and Sigmund, not noticing the troubled look on his brother's face, took this opportunity to declare the obvious.

"You're being dramatic."

"I almost murdered two people; that's dramatic," Hans corrected him, "This is perfectly reasonable –"

"Hans, stop talking!" Sigmund snapped, reaching through the bars and grabbing his brother's wrist tightly in an attempt to calm him down. Hans paused for a brief moment before reclaiming his arm with a swift tug, wrenching it from his brother's grip.

However, instead of continuing to rant about the oncoming tribunal, the felon gasped unexpectedly for air and pressed an arm against his chest, his expression one of fear and pain. Taking in ragged, uneven breaths, as though his lungs were afraid to work properly, Hans' face became alarmingly pale and Sigmund realized that something was definitely wrong. As his brother was overtaken by a fit of coughing and strange, fragmented gasps for air, the earl rushed upstairs to the prison door to send the guards for help.


End file.
